Me: (thinking furiously because I know I have to come up with something worthwhile and deep, except that I’m currently reading Deep Kiss of Winter from Kresley Cole’s, Immortals After Dark Series, which is about a hunky, tormented Vampire–are there any other kind?– and a gorgeous Valkyrie/Ice Faerie hybrid—gosh, I can so relate to her character. It’s smut, actually. Because I fight depression in the fall, which he knows about, but completely discounts, I now read smut to cheer myself up. I suppose if you can smut your way out of depression then how bad could your depression really be anyway? Ummmm.
Jeff:(stepping in to rescue me because that’s what he does) We’ve been reading Game of Thrones together.
Man: Game of Thrones? What’s that?
Jeff: Oh, it’s this terrific fantasy series set in a medieval world on another planet. It’s great.
Me: (Knowing when to hop on a good rescue vehicle when it drives by.) Yeah. Very complex character development, full of political intrigue and plot twists. The writing is great.
Man:(unimpressed) Have you ever read Notes from Underground?
Me: A long time ago.
Man: I love the opening lines from Notes from Underground. It goes, “I am a sick man… I am a spiteful man. I am an unpleasant man. I think my liver is diseased.”
Me: (All the bloggers I read write existential shit like that every day. Heck, I think I’ve started a blog post pretty much just like that. WAIT! I’m pretty sure that’s almost exactly what I said to you when I went to see you for my depression, buddy.) Oh, that’s great. He sounds like he would have been a great blogger.
Man: A what?
Me: A blogger. (Oh shit.)
Man: How about Brothers Karamazov?
Me: A long time ago?
Man: How about any Sartre?
Me: (Oh crap. He’s not going to try to talk to me about Sartre now, is he? I’ve got to find a way out of this, so I stupidly say:) I mostly write these days.
Man: Oh. What do you write?
Me: Oh, I have this little blog.
Man: What’s your blog about?
Me (Why does everyone ask this question? I write existential crap about how I’m a sick, spiteful woman with a bad liver, sort of like Dostoevsky) Stuff.
Man: What sort of stuff?
Jeff: (coming to my rescue once again) She’s being modest. She’s a good writer.
Man: Well, what do you write about?
Me: My life.
Man: Well, I’m sure it isn’t as good as Dostoevsky.
Me: (WHAT? I’m totally sick and spiteful and a hypochondriac, just like Dostoevsky) No, I’m sure not.